


Down the Alley

by KitsJay



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: M/M, Underage - Freeform, dubcon, kinkmeme fill, so hey guess what I was the Christmas anon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 09:31:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: Monroe is just trying to have a drink when in walks this kid.





	Down the Alley

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a fill on the Grimm kinkmeme.

He's way too young to be in here, is his first thought.

The bar is little more than a dive, a squat building tucked next to an alley littered with bottles, droplets of beer fermenting into a yeasty reek, used condoms, and worse. It's got good beer, though, and fair prices, and Monroe knows the owner.

The bouncer looks the other way and lets the kid in, who looks too hard like he's trying to be tough. He's got floppy hair in need of a cut, curling around his neck and into the collar of a too-big leather jacket. Puppy fat still clings to his jawline, softening the already delicate features into something almost feminine. His eyes give him away, though- piercing gray eyes with thick brows atop that scream 'masculine'.

Monroe ignores him. He's here for a beer, not to get involved in some punk kid's brush with rebellion.

To his credit, the kid doesn't do anything that would obviously give him away; he doesn't stutter or talk too much or wince at the first swallow of illegal alcohol. He perches on the stool, one foot cocked on a rung, the other flat on the floor, jean-clad legs spread invitingly. Monroe can feel the hungry gazes that sweep across him from where he's sitting, sending red hot waves of lust through him. He swallows a little quicker, hoping to get the hell out of here before he does something stupid, like get involved.

There's a scuffle across the beat-up floors, then a murmur. He takes a quick look and a man old enough to be the kid's dad- hell, Monroe, you're almost old enough, a voice inside him points out uncomfortably - is leaning with one hand braced against the bar next to the teen, the other cradling the boy's cheek in his hand. The kid is preening under the attention, posing like an advertisement for jailbait.

Monroe throws some money on the bar and stands to leave, his drink still half-finished.

He barely takes a step when he smells the sharp coppery tang of something like fear, mixed with the heady lust of the others in the bar-room. He sneaks a peek and the kid is demurring, holding up his hand and pulling away. The man follows, caging him in.

Monroe pauses, looks at the ceiling, and curses himself as he walks toward the pair.

"Problem?" he asks as casually as he can manage.

The kid's gray eyes are wide, too round and huge in his face. He opens his mouth to say something, runs the tip of his tongue over his lips. It's distracting.

"Move along," the man says gruffly without looking at Monroe. "Just beat it."

Monroe shakes his head and puts a hand on the man's shoulder, intending to pull him back. He's not prepared for the wild swing that comes lurching drunkenly at him, but he ducks in time, and the man sways alarmingly at the loss of balance. The kid dodges under his arm, comes up with a knee to the man's groin, and he doubles over. Monroe can smell the lust turning into anger, so close, almost indistinct, and a couple of the man's friends are rumbling indistinctly, coming toward him. He could take them, easily, but not without doing some serious damage and getting way more attention than he's comfortable with. The kid smells like cinnamon and the brashness of youth, quicksilver emotions running hot and lusty and violent in a moment. Monroe grabs his hand before he can do something stupid- the kid's hand is warm, calloused in his own - and drags him out while the bartender and bouncer are distracted trying to quell the riot.

The alley is dark, the only light bulb long gone out without even a dying flicker. There's slivers of light reflecting off the glass bottles and sending kaleidoscope browns and greens and blues up into the night. Monroe can't help it, brushes the kid's shoulder with his hand, telling himself he's checking for injuries. The violence and smell of blood from inside is surging something he hopes to forget one day and it's hard to push it down. Focusing on something helps.

"You okay?" he asks.

The kid shakes him off. "Yeah. Name's Nick."

Monroe raises an eyebrow, wondering vaguely if it really is, or if that's what his fake ID says. He puts out a hand anyway. "Monroe."

"Thanks for in there," Nick says, and the thick clutter of eyelashes dip, dark smudges against his cheek, before he looks up through them. It's almost coy, too naive and calculating to be completely convincing. The boy pushes himself away from the wall he's leaning against, stalks forward like he knows what he's doing. He braces his hands against Monroe's shirt-front, looking up at Monroe. "I owe you."

Monroe grabs the kid's wrists, tight enough to be a warning and not a threat. He takes a step back. "Not like that."

A flicker of irritation - he's not used to being denied anything - crosses Nick's face briefly before he schools it into a pout. His hands are still trapped, but he leans forward, forcing Monroe to back up some more and release his wrists unless he wants the kid nuzzling his cheek. Nick follows until Monroe's got his back against the wall and a determined teenager rubbing against him like a cat, adding a tiny grinding motion into his hips that makes Monroe wonder where this kid's been that he already knows moves like that.

He growls softly, another warning.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he says, barely restraining himself from taking what was so clearly on offer.

Nick lets out a laugh that's strangely bitter for someone his age. "Sure I do," he says, and places his open mouth against Monroe's neck, lighter than a memory. He bites down with straight, even teeth, and Monroe snaps.

He has the kid's wrists in his grip again and twists them around, so Nick is pinned, eyes wide and mouth laughing this time, hands above his head. Monroe leans forward, takes a kiss from him without asking, and doesn't pull away until his mouth is red and slick and the laugh is chased away by moans. Nick tilts his head, smirks, and spreads his legs. Monroe lets go of his hands and reaches down, tearing open the button and zipper on Nick's jeans. He's not wearing anything beneath.

He looks pornographic, painted in the reflections of bad nights and city lights, mouth red and slick, the hint of dark curls in the gaping V of his jeans.

Monroe tugs them down, opens his own with a snap without letting go of Nick's hands. He spins him again, so Nick is facing the wall, bracing himself with his jeans still caught around his ankles, jacket rucked up where Monroe caresses the soft, vulnerable skin of his back. He has his hands braces against the grimy brick. Everything about this scenario is dirty and Monroe feels his saner side fighting for control. He shakes his head, nearly takes a step back, when Nick bucks back, turns his head so that the soft curls of his hair are pushed to the side and the tendons stand out. He's grinning, panting around sharp teeth, and says, "What's the matter? Not man enough to finish what you started?"

It's a stupid, childish taunt, but it sends the blood in his veins boiling again. He's hard enough that it hurts and he wants nothing more than to bite into the kid's neck, taste the flare of blood on his tongue again as he fucks him, thrusts into him until the kid cries and begs and more please harder and screams into the night. He grabs a hold of Nick's cock, squeezes tight enough that Nick gasps, fingertips scrabbling against the brickface.

"Shut up," Monroe snarls into his ear. "Don't say a word."

Because as much as he wants to hear the kid beg and the noises like syrup pouring out of his mouth, he knows that he needs to keep some control here, otherwise there's going to be a dead body on the ground when they're done.

He reaches down and spits in his hand, sliding into that promise between the kid's cheeks. As he works one finger in, so fucking tight, he notices something, works it out. The kid's not breathing through it like he should be, not pushing back anymore, not so brash as scared and Monroe has to convince himself that the sudden rush of yellow fear is a sign to stop, not to push until-

He pulls out reluctantly and the kid lets out a shaky breath, opens his mouth to say something. Monroe lets out an exasperated breath and covers one of Nick's hands with his own, slams it back against the wall hard enough to scrape the palm.

"I said shut up," he says.

The kid gets it.

Monroe has some hand lotion in his pocket, and though he wants to use it to open the kid up, split him in two and keep going, he knows he hasn't got the patience for it now. He squirts the stuff on his palm and slicks it between Nick's creamy thighs. The muscles stiffen and jump under the attention, and he shifts uneasily.

Monroe positions himself carefully, tapping sharply on one pointy hipbone until Nick gets the idea and drags his feet together. It feels perfect, too close and not enough all at once, and Monroe reaches one hand down, grabs Nick's cock and starts jacking him in short, fast motions. Nick gasps and covers his arm with his mouth, hiding the noises in his forearm. The fingers of Monroe's other hand tangle with Nick's, clutching them together as he thrusts into the tight space created by Nick's thighs.

Nick comes before him, too young to hold on much longer, and sinks his teeth into his arm as he cries out softly. Monroe uses the opportunity to hook his arm around his waist, drag him in closer and gets that perfect angle that makes him reach completion with a growl of satisfaction.

They're both panting, using the wall to support them, when Nick unsteadily bends down to grab his pants. He reels drunkenly and Monroe steadies him with a hand on his elbow, crouches down and helps him button up his pants with shaking hands. Monroe tucks himself in carefully and stares at Nick, looking like he just ran a mile and trying to look cool about it. He brushes his hand through his hair and it flops back into his eyes.

"Guess I--"

Whatever he was going to say is lost.

Monroe grabs him by the collar, pulls him in close to his face, and Nick is holding onto his wrists but not tugging them away, and he looks scared and full of false bravado at the same time.

Monroe leans in. "Don't come back here again."

"Fine," Nick says angrily, and Monroe releases him, lets him straighten his shirt and jacket and stalk of the alley. He turns before he hits the street, waves sarcastically. "Thanks for the ride."

The painted red edges of Monroe's vision start to clear slowly, and he stares at the obscene stain on the wall, no worse than the other stains up and down it, but somehow the worse for knowing he had put it there.

He growled.

That was the last fucking time he was getting involved in something.


End file.
